


Mirrors

by objectlesson



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Christmas Time, Confessions, Drinking to Cope, Drunk Kissing, First Time, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Pining, Protective Illya, Repression, Self-Destructive Napoleon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:39:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21943027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Napoleon has beenhellbenton disaster as of late.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 21
Kudos: 331
Collections: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Winter Holiday Gift Exchange 2019





	Mirrors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ficwriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficwriter/gifts).



> This is for Ficwriter! I wrote it as a pinch hit so it's a little short, but I hope it fulfills your prompt/suits your fancy. I didn't put a dub con warning because everything is explicitly consented to, but there is alcohol involved and some decisions that are made under the influence so just wanted to mention that! Happy holidays! <3

The mission is over, and everyone has an amicable, celebratory drink with Waverly at their hotel bar in Prague. It _should_ end there—it usually does. But Napoleon’s been on edge for the last month or so, and Illya no longer knows what to expect from him, especially where alcohol is concerned.

So, he should have anticipated it when Napoleon, feigning good cheer, stays and orders another gin and tonic when Gaby announces she’s retiring to her room. Illya, as he often does, feels pulled in multiple directions, run through with a barbed hook and tugged until he bleeds. But his bedroom is empty and cold, and the bar is decorated for Christmas: a real, honest to god tree dressed up in gold tinsel in the corner, lights festooned from the rafters. It’s festive, and as much as Illya claims he resents such things, they’re at least a good excuse to linger, order himself another drink, and watch Napoleon closely enough he can intervene before disaster strikes. 

The thing is, Napoleon has been _hellbent_ on disaster as of late. Aside from drinking too much and becoming surly and sharp-mouthed whenever Illya tries to confront him, he’s also been throwing himself into cases so _deeply,_ Illya keeps fearing he’ll drown. Turn up water-logged in a canal, or riddled in bullet holes like the back bumper of a getaway car. Napoleon is _always_ arrogant and reckless to the point of self-destruction. It’s part of what makes him a good spy. But only recently has Illya begun to suspect he’s _intentionally_ seeking out danger and throwing himself under its crushing wheels, into its gnashing jaws. 

Illya’s not sure, really, what to do about it. The thought of anything happening to Napoleon makes him physically ill with a shaky, anemic sort of terror that keeps him up at night staring at the ceiling, hands clutching white-knuckled into his sheets. But then again, so does the thought of _talking_ to Napoleon about any of this. Pushing closer to him, when the space around his body feels so charged and electric Illya hardly trusts his own hands. Most things about Napoleon make Illya feel this way, and it’s maddeningly irritating. He’s stuck at arm’s length, refusing to struggle against the pressure because it means he’d have to ask himself _why_ Napoleon’s ice blue eyes and the shape of his mouth are too much to look at close up, most days. 

Again, he doesn’t know what to _do_ with any of it. So, he sighs, and walks back to the bar after some consideration on his way to the elevator, and orders himself a neat vodka. 

“You know,” Napoleon says crisply, sliding off his barstool to sidle up beside Illya, too close, _so_ close he can smell the gin on his breath alongside the familiar spice of his cologne. “No one really _orders_ neat vodka unless they’re trying to send themselves into oblivion. If I didn’t know any better and was only just seeing you for the first time, I’d think you had a drinking problem,” he says easily, throwing back the rest of his own drink. “Funny, how knowing a man changes the things you might think about him alone at a bar.” 

“A drinking problem?” Illya scoffs, the hand he has in his pocket tightening reflexively around nothing. “May I suggest a mirror to take a long hard look at yourself, cowboy.” 

“Me?” Napoleon quips, grinning so smoothly and quickly it does not have time to meet his eyes. “This is just a bit of merriment. For the case, for the holidays. If we’re talking recommendations, _I_ recommend you try it sometime.” 

Illya grinds his teeth. Napoleon always _does_ this, tries to convince him he’s seeing things, that he’s overreacting by being _concerned._ And it always _works,_ because Illya is _not_ certain the ways in which he observes and studies and frets over Napoleon are warranted, or normal. Everything he feels about him is twisted up like balled chicken wire, crossed lines and edges sharp enough to draw blood. He does not dare press on such a tangle, and he assumes Napoleon has figured out as much, so, naturally, whenever he digs at Napoleon’s wounds, he just flips the whole affair back on him. _Are you sure there’s something wrong with me? Or perhaps, is there just something wrong with you?”_

 _“_ I am not _talking_ about merriment,” Illya reminds him, throwing back his vodka. It burns on the way down, and he forces himself not to cough. “I’m talking about you. It’s not just _this,”_ he says, gesturing to the already empty glass on the bar with its melting ice. “It’s—the cases. The way you’ve been—”

“Do you have problem with the way I _work,_ Peril?” Napoleon says, voice cold with warning. 

“I—I am tired of wondering if you’ll turn up dead. If I’ll _find_ you, dead,” Illya answers, watching Napoleon suck the gin down of his newest drink like it’s water, dark lashes fluttering against the marble white of his cheek. He is lovely lit up in holiday lights, and Illya wishes so _badly_ the fact he thinks so was not so tied up in his concern. That he could parse out the ways he regards him. “And it’s happening more and more.” 

“Hm,” Napoleon says, eyes flashing as he sucks the last of his drink from the ice and slams it down onto the table. His hair has come undone from being neatly pushed black, an oil slick in his eyes, curling down across his brow. “ _Is_ it happening more and more? Or are you just…compromised?” he says, shouldering on his coat. He throws down some bills, enough for his drinks _and_ Illya’s, and then he’s advancing on the door. 

Illya’s heart it tight in his throat, stomach reduced to reproachful knots as he tears after him. “What— _what_ are you implying? What are you—”

“Maybe you’ve fallen in love with me,” Napoleon snarls then as he steps out into the night, breath making plumes of vapor in the street lit almost darkness. “And that’s why you suddenly _care_ so goddamned much.” 

It hits him like ice water. Like shrapnel. 

Illya tightens a fist, but with no intention of using it. He feels sick, because Napoleon is _right_ , on some level, but this is _still_ a deflection. He can tell because of the inky, panicked darkness spreading in Napoleon’s eyes, the liquor on his breath, the way he’s stumbling. And concern wins out over anger, fear crowds out self-doubt. “You’re drunk.” he murmurs in favor of answering, of fighting. He grips Napoleon by the elbows and steers him up against a wall. “Were you—were you drinking all day? Before the bar? _Jesus,_ Cowboy. Stand up.” 

“Fuck,” Napoleon slurs, head tilting back so the skyline of his throat is exposed and pale and kissable. Illya sucks in a nervous breath, and wonders how he got here. Caring profoundly for someone who who does not care for himself. Who refuses to let anyone care for him. “I might have had one or two,” Napoleon mumbles. 

“Will you tell me what’s wrong?” Illya demands, thumbs biting into the ditches of Napoleon’s elbows, pressing against his pulse. “Inside, if you want. In your room. Or you can sober up—“ 

Napoleon laughs humorlessly, breath hot and boozy on Illya’s lips, making him nod closer, as if he can trap every wounded, hurt thing into the space between then, keep it from leaking out into the real world. His heart is racing and the vodka is burning in his gut, and all he wants is to _help._ To know why Napoleon is so convinced the only way to live is in pain. 

“Peril,” he sighs, gaze skirting down to and fixing on Illya’s mouth like he’s thinking of striking it, drawing blood to the surface of a swollen lip. “Maybe _you’re_ the one who needs a mirror. A long, hard, look at himself. A long hard something.” 

And Illya doesn’t know what to say to that or what to do with him, so he tries to drag him away from the wall and back inside the hotel lobby, imagining the trip up the stairs, what Napoleon’s suit jacket will feel like bunched in his steering fists. But then, before he can do any of that. Napoleon slides a big, warm palm to the back of his neck, drags him down, and kisses him hard enough he tastes metal. 

_Oh,_ he thinks desperately, tasting gin and hurt and more gin, without even realizing that in order to taste such things, he has to be using his tongue. He’s only distantly aware of anything beyond the heat and solidity of Napoleon’s body, his stunned gasp, the bustle of traffic behind them. It’s foot-steps crunching along the sidewalk somewhere beyond the hotel valet roundabout that forces Illya to rocket back into his sense, pushing up and away from Napoleon with hands pressed flush to his chest. He stares at him, his ice blue eyes (wide and hungry), the shape of his mouth (swollen and pinkwet), so many things he’s forever stuck on just _there,_ spread and glorious before him. He cannot believe Napoleon, but mostly, he cannot believe himself. “Not here,” he grinds out, forcing himself to step away, skin crawling with combined terror and want. “Not here.” 

“Alright,” Napoleon says, swallowing audibly, carding a clumsy hand through his hair. he looks less drunk, now, like he was exaggerating his state only moments before, or perhaps like Illya’s lips sobered him up. The flash of pale skin in shiny darkness, makes Illya wish he was the one doing it, feeling the slip of soft black hair twisting in his fingers. “But—somewhere.” 

“Is this— _is this_ why you’ve been so insufferable?” Illya hisses then, the thought hitting him suddenly, so violently he feels breathless. “Were you trying to get my attention? To—goad me into admitting—”

“ _No,_ no,” Napoleon mumbles, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth. Illya notices it’s trembling, and it takes witnessing Napoleon’s reaction to notice the cold himself. He makes a fist in Napoleon’s lapel and drags him to the door, pausing as Napoleon stumbles along. “It was _because_ of you,” he says then, shaking his head, smiling a sad, fractured half-smile. “Not _for_ you. I didn’t bank so much on you _noticing,_ Peril. Perhaps then I would have played a slightly different hand.” 

“Do not talk about this as if it’s _cards,”_ Illya snaps, shoving him back into the hotel, past the bar, and to the elevator. They stand side by side inside once the doors shut, reflections displayed infinitely in one hundred mirrored fractals. It would be overwhelming, if everything wasn’t overwhelming enough already. Illya licks his lips, and realizes more than anything else, he wants to kiss Napoleon again. He wants to lay him out on his bed, bring him water, beg him to stop hurting himself, because there are people who care. Who’d fall to pieces were he gone. “Cowboy,” he says then, risking a glance at one of the many versions of Napoleon’s wan reflection staring back at him. “You are not allowed to die.” 

Napoleon turns to him then, and pushes him up against glass to kiss him. “I can’t promise that I won’t,” he murmurs into the needy heat of Illya’s mouth as they miss their floor, and keep heading skyward. “But I can try my hardest to stop _trying_ to die. I have substantially more keeping me invested in my health if this is what I have to look forward to.” 

And Illya does not answer, he drags Napoleon back in, hooks an arm around his neck, and allowed himself to be pushed flush and aching against his own reflection. 


End file.
